An Examination of Equality in Our Modern Mage Culture
by theblindtorpedo
Summary: In Waver Velvet's opinion it is tremendously unfair that she must overcome the inconveniences of her gender, a low mage status, and the seemingly insurmountable problem of falling in love with Alexander the Great. But, let know one say that she is not up for a challenge. (An AU study of how fem!Waver's life might be different before, during and after the War.)
1. Before

The first thing she does after the funeral is cut her hair. There is supreme satisfaction in the sharp slice of the scissor and the thick mass falling to the floor. Waver can feel her head snap upwards as the weight is lifted and it incites an odd euphoria. Seventeen years of her life and her mother had braided long hair every morning. Waver had appreciated it for she did not like taking the time to care for her appearance and braids had made her hair easy. Later it had been the only mother-daughter bonding they could do with their diametrically opposed personalities; Waver had known her mother could braid in seconds, but she noticed the process became longer as time went on. She does not begrudge her mother grasping at these last vestiges of familial bonds, even as they both felt themselves slipping apart. She is not a cruel daughter. In the last days, when her mother had lain in hospital, Waver would sit by the bedside, book in hand for hours, while middle-aged fingers stroked and curled ends of her hair. Now it serves no more purpose. It falls along with shackles of her simple parentage. She is free.

* * *

"Ah, the Lady Velvet doth approach! You look especially lovely!" the man at the secondhand shop winks at her. He is tall and broad shouldered, his body tapering down to toned legs. Although his height adds to the illusion of thinness the muscles under his clothes are unmistakable. Waver frowns at him and he laughs.

"I'm not trying to look lovely, Bartholomew. This is for practicality."

"You hear that buddy," Bartholomew says, patting a young puppy at his feet, "you can't bite and pull at her hair now. I'll miss the squawking. Although I hope I shall still be able to make you scream by other means-"

"What is wrong with you!" she hisses, "And in public? People could hear!"

"Okay, okay, business." he puts his hands up in mock surrender, "What's new for me today?"

"I still don't see why you can't just send someone to pick all of this up instead of forcing me to carry it all bit by bit to this stupid shop." She places the box on the counter and proceeds to unpack a set of cutlery and plates onto the counter for Bartholomew's appraisal.

"That would be a terrible waste of our resources. I need the men here for packing and shipping you know that. You just want some nice strong lads in your house for you to watch don't you? I know you young girls. Am I not enough for you?"

"As if I had any interest in seducing these idiots."

"I am relieved." He leans forward and pecks her on the forehead.

"Get off me you brute," she swipes playfully at his retreating head and he catches her hand and plants kisses on that too. She finds herself blushing, "But, honestly," she stammers through his ministrations, "I'm going to need someone to pick up the major furniture soon."

He drops her hand abruptly as he turns to make a mark on a book behind him. "When do you start?" he asks without facing her.

"First week of September."

"All right. 12th of August, we'll come at 11." His face is solemn as he hands her a receipt, which she tucks into the small pouch at her hip.

"I'll miss you when you move off to school."

"Yes, fine," she says, and he knows in the language of Waver Velvet that acknowledgement is the closest towards verbal reciprocity he can hope to receive.

"Come visit?" his voice is soft and hopeful. She sighs. Men are so fragile.

"I have to marry a mage. I won't be able waste time with old boyfriends."

"You don't have to! You're plenty smart on your own. You're gonna be a great famous mage by twenty-five. Isn't that the plan? Why this marriage business all of a sudden? The Waver Velvet I know would never let herself be defined by a man."

It is evidence of their intimacy that she does not shoot back with a reproach on his presumption to know her mind. Instead she chooses: "It's not my choice! It's how the system works. I'm only third generation, without connections I'm not going to get anywhere in mage society."

"And mage society is so goddamned important," he grumbles, not a complaint, but an agreement. "Do you ever wish you'd been born common?"

"No."

He nods. It is the answer he expected.

"I'm sorry, Bartholomew."

A sincere apology from Waver Velvet is more rare than a diamond in the gutter. An apology wraps up their history in a way a straight goodbye never could. This is the end and they both know it.

He says he thinks the dining set will fetch about a hundred pounds and promises to call her with the exact number later. She pets the dog on her way out and it whines into her hand.

* * *

At home she circles August 12th in red on her calendar and tacks the receipt up on her wall. She sits on her bed looking at the small room that will soon no longer be hers. Almost all her and her family's possessions have been sold or in the process of being sold. She plans to bring to the Clock Tower only two worn suitcases full of books and clothes, although she hasn't packed them yet. A pile sits precariously on her bedside table; she picks up the top volume and flips through it idly. It smells like the library closest to her house, where she'd spent her free hours before her age convinced her mother she was allowed farther into the city. She'd taken it without permission, but doubted it would be missed. It had been the only book on magecraft in the small library's collection; that building was a bank now. At twelve years old, she had looked it up in the catalogue and dutifully counted numbers until she'd found where it was supposed to be shelved. There had been a boy there, holding a book. Her book. _That's mine, she had said, you don't need it. I'm the only mage here so I deserve to read it more than you. Wide eyes had turned to her. You're a mage? How cool!_ Bartholomew had adored her ever since.

What a shame.

She holds the book to her chest and climbs off the bed, to place it in the suitcase, next moving to change from her casual summer t-shirt into a more respectable blouse. The estate agent will arrive soon.

* * *

When the men come for the furniture Bartholomew is not with them. Waver knows she is in a rotten mood and can't stop from yelling at them several times, but the job gets done and she tips them well. They leave her alone in the empty house and suddenly she finds herself quivering in fright. The space is so large and she is so small. She runs to her room seeking quick solace, stomach lurching. It is as if a cork flies off a high-pressure flask. All her emotions gush out in a feral wail, the emotions hidden and hoarded since her parents' death that had been secondary to the rough transition to adulthood. She cries crouched in the hallway, but from loss of the past or for fear of the future she is unsure.

* * *

The last things she throws away are her father's cigars. He'd never smoked one; he was a cigarette man. Cigars were much too expensive, but she'd bought them for his birthday while he was ill with money she'd made from cat-sitting. He can't smoke while in hospital, she knows this, but she has him promise he will get better or else he would be to blame for her wasted money. Her father hates wasting money. He tries to laugh at her roundabout worry, but all that comes out is blood and phlegm. Of course, he couldn't keep that promise. She takes up stress smoking since their deaths, but she does not plan on keeping the habit. Smoking girls are unseemly and she needs to look her best. First impressions during the next few months will be of paramount importance. So, she puts her last cigarette carton on top of the cigars before burning them. She uses matches.

* * *

Waver wonders what her parents would think of her now. She stands outside the broad front doors of the Clock Tower, about to take her first step towards becoming a professional mage. This is not the future they wanted for her.

_Use those smarts to get a real, successful job, her mother said._

_I don't get it! Why'd you implant me with this crest if you don't want me to be a mage!_

_Because it is the people not the skills that are the problem. All those mages up in their high tower doing god knows what. I know magecraft can be useful and you already know more than I do. Use your crest and simple skills to help people who aren't already benefitting from the system. Use it to increase productivity or efficiency in whatever you choose to do, but my daughter isn't going to disappear into some elitist aristocracy just to have her stepped upon her entire life._

_How do you know I can't be a respected mage? You didn't even try, Mother. You took one look at that life and let it defeat you! I'm not going to make your mistakes!_

_THAT'S ENOUGH WAVER, her father brought his fist down, you'll attend regular Uni, no more arguments._

Yet she knows they would also be proud of her. A third generation mage passing the entrance exams is rare. There had been no study guides, no mentor, no life long exposure to the material, but she had successfully calculated the majority of what appeared on the test and aced it. Waver Velvet plans to walk in and dazzle the mage world. Her mother would appreciate her appearance as well, especially after teenage years filled with t-shirts, single-color sweaters and dark pants. Waver knows she has to look respectable and pretty or no high-level skills will save her from scorn: the curse of her sex. Shopping for new clothes had been terrible; her small stature allowed others to unceremoniously push and pull their way around her and it took far too much time to figure out the ridiculously different numerical sizes. She'd emerged with many bruises and shopping bags she could barely carry on her own and, in her opinion, the ordeal had taken far too much time. She was too proud to ask the shop girls for help, but had no clue what was considered fashionable or attractive. Observing women on the street and in magazines provided such a dizzying variety that no surefire conclusions could be drawn from such research. She eventually settled on a new collection of subdued knee length pleated and pencil skirts that she could tuck brighter multicolored dress shirts into. She'd kept her few flats, but picked up two wedge heels hoping to draw male attention to her long legs (she had no courage to try actual heels). She hopes the overall ensemble appears sophisticated enough to appear qualified, despite her status, in the eyes of the faculty yet sexy to appeal to the desires of men, even high-ranking mage boys have basic lust. Waver Velvet plays the long game, but she does not have to like it.

* * *

It is her first class, while they are introducing themselves, that her confidence in her plan is hit. She starts out all brash self-assurance; she gives her name loudly, her wide grin not hostile, but challenging. She recites her test scores, although she was not asked to, and lays out in two sentences her plan to become a great mage. There is a long silence. She turns expectantly to the girl next to her wondering why the introductions are not continuing, but the girl is staring at her, brow furrowed.

"Excuse me, what generation are you?" she asks.

"I-I," Waver feels her cheeks flush, "I'm third generation, but what does that matter?"

"Oh" The reply is light, but completely dismissive and Waver feels as if she has been punched in the gut. The girl launches into her introduction, but Waver does not remember her name or anyone else's for the rest of the period.

Yet, the Clock Tower is everything Waver could have wished for. Most people treat her kindly. The beds are heavenly soft. The food is delicious. Best of all, the books are filled to the brim with all the knowledge Waver could ask for. The first time she walks into the library she thinks she might faint. She could live among its shelves and one night she sleeps there, just to feel the aged wood against her cheek in the morning and know this is not all a dream. At night she goes to bed with her hand clasped to her mouth to hide her smile. She cannot contain her joy and why should she, when she is the luckiest girl in the world. However, she has trouble making close friends; Waver Velvet is not adept at charm. She knows she looks unapproachable, her most common expressions being smug, indignant or nonplussed. She has practiced smiling on command in the mirror, but it looks wrong and it feels like a betrayal. Yet, in her position, she exudes an aura of contentment and ambition that is still admired and envied.

* * *

They are practicing transmutations in the courtyard. With a flash where once a block of paper had stood a spear now lies. It is perfectly straight and smooth. The tip is a sharp, brilliant emerald green. Waver Velvet is pleased with her work. She is even more pleased by the oohs and ahhs of the students circling her. Her skirt is wrinkled from kneeling and ink is stuck under her fingernails from drawing the magic circles and spending all of last night studying, but Waver does not think she has ever felt more appealing. She throws the spear in the air and catches it in faux battle stance to a round of applause; she is a shameless showman.

"Top marks, Velvet," the professor says. "Next class let's try enchanting it."

"Yes, very impressive," a sarcastic drawl crawls its way through the crowd. The students turn. The boy is a member of the extended Archibalds, his blond hair slicked back similarly to the Lord El Melloi's although he face is rounder and eyes a cutting grey, "Especially for someone of your position," he continues, "But you know, I've never heard of the Velvets before. Are you truly a real magic family? Perhaps your mother was not as faithful to your power-less father and that's the source of your-"

She punches him in the jaw and he reels back, but he is sturdy and her small fists barely hurt him. They are pulled into disciplinary committee, but there are witnesses that she was provoked so she receives no punishment. To her chagrin, neither does he.

She does not know if she is angrier at the insult to her mother's fidelity or the insinuation that her merits come from mage genetics and not her own work.

* * *

She has been dating an eighth generation mage for about a month. The week after her fight they discuss the incident. He tells her to let it go, that it is not worth picking further fights with an Archibald, and most infuriatingly, that she should know better. She does not agree. He tries to soothe her with physical affection. He holds her and tells her that no one should ever say such cruel things. She asks why he doesn't defend her honor. He kisses her and looks at her with sincerity. Look at your crest, he says, you don't have any yet.

He is right, but she still breaks up with him.

Waver is not sure whether she can stand a lifetime of this.

* * *

No one sees her out of her room during the next fortnight, except in class and when she is fetching food.

"What have you been doing all this time?" the girl in the room next to hers asks, catching her struggling to open her dormitory door with a stack of books in one arm nearly half her height.

Waver gives her a secretive smile as she throws her shoulder against the door to ease it open.

"I've started a new thesis."


	2. The Grail War: Part 1

By Waver's second year the students, who are now expected to draw more deeply from their innate magical circuits, attend daily practicums. Waver no longer has the luxury of a week of preparation for these presentations; the incessant drain on her limited power expresses itself as only average work. After a full day she staggers into bed and awakens in the morning, hands wringing the hem of her nightgown, dreading what lies ahead. Her room is littered with empty gallons of orange juice and take-out containers. She sleeps all of Saturdays away.

Even through the pain she perseveres for she can occasionally glimpse the tantalizing glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. Her lecture classes continue to fascinate and she still excels in textual and theoretical work. Sometimes the old wonder will wash over her when she watches her classmates successfully (and beautifully) fight or transmute or heal at superior levels, but awe is quickly replaced by the sting of her own inadequacies. She draws more into herself. When she is not studying she is cultivating the seeds of her new thesis. Hours of bending over books build a stoop into her thin frame and she emerges a sharp-eyed, frowning, green preying mantis. She smells of dust. Where she walks, murmurs of pity hover over her shoulders. Pity is worse than open disdain. She will prove them wrong. She does not need friends. She does not need anyone.

So she tells herself. Yet even as she moves further away from the dance of Clock Tower society she longs for the love of the mages. Her abandonment of pursuing connections is temporary; she will reap the fruits of her labour soon. She will walk at no man's heel with work this revolutionary, she thinks. Yet they should and must, most importantly, believe she is valuable while she is not and thus give her the means by which she may rise to true greatness.

* * *

Had she truly expected Kayneth Archibald to fall at her feet? To bow his pristine head to her genius? Yes, she damn well had. Her thesis was supposed to kill two birds with one stone. With her exemplary theories she would break through his barriers of propriety, wooing and winning the admiration of the highest mages of the Clock Tower and with their support she would put the theories of her paper into action and overcome her birthright. Yet her failure moves her, driving her desperation into a whirlwind that consumes her even more. Her confidence is crumbling and her mind suggestible. So, although she does not believe in God, Alexander's artifact falling into her hands, she thinks this must be divine providence. Destiny or fate or a higher power, it knows her heart's desire, it knows she deserves to succeed and it agrees. She must win the Holy Grail War and the name Waver Velvet would be on the lips of every mage in the world.

* * *

She feels light-headed. There was a striking flash, searing heat and blast of smoke, still swirling in the clearing. Hallucinations? The only certainty is the prickling of grass on the sensitive skin of her back where her shirt rides up. She lays supine upon the earth, wide green eyes staring at the figure before her.

He is all glory and magnificence, and from her position, exceedingly large. The night curls around broad shoulders, flowing over his windswept hair and under billowing crimson cape. Whiffs of sand, foreign spices and an aroma overpoweringly male assault her nose. The stars seem to orbit his head, where magnetic eyes take in the world around him. He gazes up at the sky, sniffs, and then turns towards the ground and the trees. His expression is unreadable, but the eyes glisten with a light that that cannot be just the moon's reflection. Thick lips open and suck in the air, tasting this new world, and the trees bend in, as if listening for some wisdom and Waver feels herself drawn upwards, gravitating towards this giant as well. Then she is standing and grinning from ear to ear.

_ I made you. I am strong._

_ I made you. You are perfect._

_ I made you. You are mine._

She stumbles forward as if in a dream and places a hand against his sternum, splayed fingers drag down to thick muscle. He is solid and warm and pulsing. The red of the command seals matches his eyes, so much more vivid than the drying dark of the chicken's blood that stains her clothes.

"Yes, I am your Master. And you are my servant."

"Splendid!" The trees quiver with the booming vibration of the single word.

"Hey, not so loud!"

"Apologies, young lady, the excitement is overwhelming." he lowers in volume, but his voice still sends tremors down her spine.

"Do you know why I summoned you?"

"To win the Holy Grail War."

"To win the Holy Grail War for me! And with someone as powerful as you, I can't possibly lose!"

"Undoubtedly, young Master! No one shall defeat, Iskandar King of Conquerors, I assure you! Yet, I do so look forward to engaging these other great heroes. Such an opportunity! Say, we have much to do, now have we a base of operations?" he asks.

"Shelter?" she is calmer now, thinking of practicalities, "Well, yes we do. Sort of."

In the small house, Glen Mackenzie stares at the sky and wonders if the mysterious girl is safe. He does not know what her purpose is, but he hopes she will stay a while and that when she must leave, she does not end up hurting him. It is unfortunate that he loves her already.

"It's not too far," Waver continues, "the house, but I-"

Suddenly, she sways and falls, her exhaustion roughly closing in upon her. A large, calloused hand catches her small frame and she leans her cheek into the palm. Her eyelids flutter closed. To rest now in this warmth, so comfortable . . .

A hard metal something is pressed to her lips and soon water is spilling into her mouth, overflowing. She sputters and coughs, but the water keeps coming and soon she is gulping, greedily and obscenely loud, her hand up to grasp the flask offered. She wonders if he knows he is giving her more than just refreshment; with the drink flowing her magical water affinity is touched and her circuits flare up again. A temporary relief.

Yet she is still spent and it is late. She rubs at her eyes and wipes at her mouth, looking up at the face that is now more paternal than imposing. She scrambles back out of his lap and stands, her dignity slightly bruised.

"We should leave, before anyone gets suspicious. Are you always this showy?"

"A king should not be afraid of the opinions of others if he is loyal to his true nature. And I am your king, but who are you?"

"I am Waver Velvet. Just Waver Velvet."

"Ah, but we are never 'just' ourselves. I can see you, Waver Velvet, you must be a great mage to even call forth the mighty Iskandar of the Rider Class!"

She turns towards the MacKenzies' house.

"I hope so. Let's go, Rider."

* * *

From the height of first meeting their relationship swings downward. They forged a pact of service supposedly in her favour yet Waver feels like the subservient sidekick, carrying his books, buying him food, providing him with mana he does not need yet. He is turning her into the housewife she swore she'd never be. And his bravura grows tiresome quickly. He paints Waver pictures of worldly conquest and all she sees are delusions. Alexander is an impossible relic of history: a man who cannot ever hope to apply his dated ideas of power to the complex present, even if he had the chance. She scorns him. Her ambitions of respect are far more realistic, she thinks, yet he dares to call them unworthy of the grail! From years of habit Waver flexes her muscles of defensiveness and internalizes his critical words as personal attacks. Rider was supposed to accept her superiority and she would have someone bow to her, but the world would not grant her even that which the other Master supposedly had. If she wins the grail war, even if she climbs the mage ranks with her wish, her heart sinks imagining that all that will be remembered is the prowess of Rider.

Many times she tries to wrestle power back, only to feel pushed even lower. She would call rank and he would call history and experience. Alexander the King has already succeeded at life. He has come back only to revel again in the great pleasures: food, sleep, sex and war. In her lone nineteen years she has not had the luxury of prioritizing such basic desires. Some are not so lucky as to come into this world already a king.

Rider thinks they are both blessed.

Rider and Waver have different definitions of the word king.

* * *

She cowers on top of the bridge, her anger at Rider secondary to her fear, but her desperate cries are lost on the seated Macedonian. He is absorbed with surveying the city. He tells her that a fight between Lancer and Saber has begun, although she cannot see the proceedings. Watching his face, trying to ignore the gushing river and fast cars below, she becomes acutely aware of Rider's infamy as a general. His face grows stern in thinking upon how this confrontation will affect the rest of the war. She thinks he is finally pulling his weight, coming up with a plan. Unfortunately, his battle spirit wins over reason and she is dragged onto his great chariot, hurtling towards the warehouse.

He offers them an alliance and is rebuffed.

"Rider!" she yells to heavens, "what is wrong with you?" He is a paradox, throwing the accepted proceedings of the Grail War aside despite winning being his ultimate purpose. How will he win when he refuses to play the game properly? This is a servant she cannot hope to ever control.

Then there is Kayneth Archibald El Melloi, who threatens and taunts from his place in the shadows. His words chill her to the bone, promises of pain and fear. He will kill her, she has no doubt, with all the strength and nobility she lacks. It will be a fitting end to an unworthy mage. In this war all outrank her and she will pay with her life.

"Only one who is brave enough to ride into battle at my side is worthy of being my Master."

"Is she so worthy?" Lord El Melloi's voice comes through gritted teeth, "Look at her!"

"I do not have to look to know my Master. We made a pact, she and I. At my side I have a mage surely stronger and smarter than a coward such as you."

"Look again," the voice sneers.

Rider looks down, cowed by Lord El Melloi's confidence. Waver's head bowed, hiding behind her hair. She is pointing a shaking finger at Lancer.

"That's Kayneth's servant . . ."

"Yes, that is Lancer." He is perplexed.

"He . . ." she seems incapable of speech and is blushing furiously, "so powerful . . . "

"It seems your, Master has been incapacitated by my servant's Love Spot. How simple and weak," Lord El Melloi explains.

Lancer sighs. "Apologies, Rider. It is my curse and not my intention to taint what should be noble battle with such tactics."

"I see!" Rider exclaims, "A dirty trick! Are you all so underhanded? Those so craven and cowardly will draw the scorn of Iskander, King of Conquerors! Show yourselves, Servants! I shall fight for my fallen Master's honour!"

His call is answered. Archer and Berserker make their entrance and the pavement hums with magic and the evil radiating from Berserker's armour. It becomes a flurry of fighting, explosions and clashing swords. Then a deafening roar rises from Rider and a feeble "No, you'll hurt him!" from Waver as the chariot charges, crashing into Lancer and Berserker. The dark knight is sent crashing to the ground, while the other dodges at the last minute.

The skirmish is over. "Have Lancer withdraw!" Rider commands, "if you insist on humiliating him further I will join Saber against him, and I assure you the two of us will annihilate your servant."

Lord El Melloi grudgingly complies, with resentfulness in his voice.

"My thanks, King of Conquerors."

"Go now, Lancer, you are a valiant fighter, but I cannot lie and say I am fond of you at this moment." He places a hand upon Waver's back protectively, but she slaps his hand away.

"You can't speak to him that way, Rider!"

"Fool!" He grabs Waver by the nape and tucks her under his arm though she rails against him in vain.

"I am saddened that she has lost her wits at such a time as this," he apologizes over his master's vocal protests, "Saber, first settle matters with Lancer in battle. Then I will face the victor of your conquest. Fare thee well."

The chariot ascends and Rider and Waver are carried away into the deepening night.

They alight upon the bridge again. Waver has exhausted herself and hangs limp under Rider's arm. He lays her gently down.

"Are you all right?"

She blinks, heart slowing to normal after the excitement of the last hours. "I think so," she says, taking a stabilizing deep breath, "I suppose we gained important information tonight. There are so many powerful servants. Archer, Saber, Berserker, and Lancer . . ." Her eyes glaze over as she trails off.

"Are you aware you are under a curse?"

"I-" her face scrunches up in concentration, "I m-may be, but I . . . . he is so beautiful, Rider. Please. Do we have to harm him?"

"It is at a time like this I am grateful your magic is limited. While I draw upon it for my manifestation I cannot say that I approve of such use in warfare."

"But?"

"We will let Saber defeat him."

She hangs her head. "I wish we didn't have to."

"Ah, I wish all these great heroes could live once again. I am much grieved they declined my offer of alliance."

"We can't have alliances, stupid. This is the Grail War. Only one Master wins."

"And only one servant. Who shall it be?"

She looks up at the man who will save her.

"You. It has to be you."


	3. The Grail War: Part 2

They have a strange living arrangement.

At night she forces him to take spirit form. He must promise not to watch her undressing and he agrees. So she pulls up the covers alone, turning her back to him, and he may have materialized on the floor with a book to read. Yet despite such innocent starts, he has somehow taken to sleeping in her small bed. She twists and turns in fretful sleep, later unremembered dreams of golden swords piercing and ripping apart at her hero and then to turn towards her own frightened, quivering form. She does not remember the content of these dreams, only that the first time it was a comfort to wake next to her snoring servant and shift so she lays against his chest. So it has become an unacknowledged habit. Sometimes a hand or arm will wrap itself around her small waist and she is in an impenetrable fortress, safe. She wonders if he realizes in sleep if he is holding someone. She wonders who has the privilege to be held by Alexander the Great. Such thoughts are truly embarrassing, but she reassures herself that the snores are evidence he is deep in sleep and is not aware of her neediness. She is wrong. He knows, but her pride is so delicate he will not tell her.

* * *

To Waver's consternation, the Mackenzies adore Rider. If she had her druthers, they would never have known of his existence, but one day she is called down to dinner to find a servant (who had an hour ago been in spirit form) sitting at the dinner table.

"Waver!" Glen calls out, "Alexi here dropped by to see you."

"Oh did he?" she glares at a shamelessly grinning, fully materialized Rider.

"They have graciously invited me to dine with you tonight!"

"You should have told us you had a guest or I'd have cooked something special," Martha chides, coming out of the recessed kitchen, bearing trays of food.

"He's not supposed to be here," she grumbles, sliding into the wooden chair.

"Don't trouble yourself," Rider says, "the simple pleasures of home and hearth are what are truly best in this world." He takes a bite of fish with flourish and a contented grunt.

"You are such a flatterer aren't you, Alexi!" Martha turns winks at Waver, who stares sulking down into her rice bowl.

"We were worried about how Waver was doing at her school in England, but if she's managed to meet a strapping man like you, well, I guess we were worried over nothing." Glen is smiling conspiratorially in Waver's direction, a friendly hand on Rider's back. She is mortified. The best plan of avoidance seems to be to start eating vigorously and to ignore the scene in front of her. The chopsticks make rude clicking sounds as she shovels the food into her mouth.

"Waver and I are quite well acquainted, but she has never told me she has such wonderful people for grandparents!"

"Oh!" Martha hides her smile behind a polite hand, "we are not so important all the way out here in Japan."

"But we are honored to have you and to come so far away from home! How long will you be staying?" Glen asks.

"I should have all my work completed in about a week or so."

"Well, why don't you take the extra key? You can come over any time you like to eat or rest or visit Waver."

"How kind of you! I will gladly take you up on such an offer."

The meal continues full of drinking and cheer despite a very sullen Velvet lady. Afterwards, Rider offers to help clean the dishes, but Waver stops him with a sharp "no" and practically drags him up away into the hallway.

"You kids have fun!" Glen yells after them.

She unceremoniously pushes Rider into the room and slams the door shut.

"Didn't I tell you to take spirit form when you come and go? Now you're going to have to pretend to come in and leave every day, to explain why you're here! I'd think you'd have some sense, since finally you're the one who will inconvenienced!"

"Every day? Can they not be convinced I am sleeping in your room most nights? Surely they would not object to that. You are of age, after all."

"What are you talking about! Not with you!"

"It should only be for a week."

"You know what, fine! Have it your way, but I hope you at least brought the water from the river. Honestly, you are more trouble than you're worth."

* * *

The sight of Caster's lair and the revelation of Assassin's survival leave Waver feeling hollow and nauseated. She sits on the edge of her bed, hugging her knees, trying to will the cruel images out of her mind. Yet each time she manages to focus on the grave face of Rider across from her, the red of his hair grows dark and streams out into the sickening sea of blood. The brown of the walls fractures and falls away and the dark rolls in from the edges of her vision. There are bodies, numerous corpses. Wide limpid eyes, so similar to her own not so long ago, stare helplessly. She feels a phantom memory of jagged bone scraping at the edge of her shoe. The columns are framed with ornaments of torn muscle, seared limbs, glistening viscera, the entire scene is painted: a ghastly celebration of cruelty. Tears well up in her eyes.

"You are safe now." Rider's voice is low and solemn.

"I know! I know!" she tells him, muffled and quietly hesitant.

"Then do not cry, young Master. You are a strong girl."

"Easy for you to say! Are you making fun of me again? Because I'm not a conqueror? That's what you think isn't it? Such things are normal for you, I suppose. I'm just a stupid girl who gets sick at the sight of a real war-"

"You know nothing!" He growls and jabs her in the head with a single finger. It is not a violent action, but acts as one sharp force to silence her and send her sprawling back on the bed.

"You barbarian!" she springs back up, incensed and screaming now, "You can't do that to me!"

"Then how else am I supposed to get you to stop spewing nonsense? Physical action was the only option!"

"You don't have to hit me!"

"Then what?"

She snarls, hands flying out to grasp the sides of his face while she lunges forward. For a split second he thinks she intends to ram her forehead into his, but no, she is kissing him. It is hard, no affection, an act of power and dominance that ends quickly as she throws his head back with an angry howl issuing form her mouth. She is running now, down the hallway to the bathroom, leaving Rider dazed and confused.

The bathroom is blissfully and shockingly cold against the heat of her body. She sinks into the empty tub, beating at its sides until her knuckles feel raw. There is someone at the door, but she can't hear their words over the pounding in her ears. She leaves the door closed and does not respond, and soon she is left alone by the sound of retreating footsteps. She moans and lets her head loll back, closing her eyes and praying her entire world would disappear.

It is still dark when she wakes from unexpected sleep. Her body aches as she gingerly climbs out of the bathtub and opens the door, tiptoeing back to the room. Rider is lying on the bed, wearing his civilian clothes. She sees him stiffen as she enters, but he does not look at her, continuing to stare at the ceiling.

"I took spirit form, but the Mackenzies were awoken and confused by the sudden disturbance."

She stands over him, arms folded defensively. "More work, of course. Now I have to hypnotize that away in the morning."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be."

They are stuck at a stalemate. Minutes pass and neither speak. The girl and the man watch each other warily, each scared of how to proceed. Yet there is a calming affect in the soft murmurs of their breathing, the only sounds to fill the space.

Eventually Rider speaks. "I am not untouched by such carnage as we saw in Caster's lair."

"Don't talk about that, please." A faint shiver runs through her.

"No, it is important that you understand. I do not show emotion, because a king must endure. That is our duty: to take the burdens of our people and overcome them. This is what I must do for you."

She sighs and plants herself heavily on the edge of the bed. "Have you really seen things like that often?"

"Never so many children, but men, many men. Sometimes families. And I looked upon them knowing I had a hand in their end, in their sacrifice."

"How can you live with yourself?"

"Sometimes I cannot, but it was all necessary. I suppose I grow a tough shell from practice. I was born a king."

"You had no choice."

He nods. She thinks about that strong jaw and how it stood over the people of Macedonia. She thinks of the horror that sun cracked face has seen and how it still smiles at small pleasures like home cooked meals. She thinks of his offer of alliance to the other servants and realizes he was not being naïve, he knew the purpose of a grail war. Yet her hero had hoped to prevent bloodshed; unlike the others he had tried to stop the war before it had even begun. He had not accepted the necessity of a war, for Alexander the Great knew of the horror that came from battle. So he fights because he must, and if he must he shall do so with grandeur. Waver Velvet wonders at how she has summoned a servant so wonderfully heroic. She is unsure if she deserves such majesty.

A curious hand reaches out, thin fingers catching in his beard, and moving up to cup his face. Then a tentative thumb runs over a cheekbone and he does not protest, so she moves to trace that grand nose with an index finger. He lets her attentions continue as she leans forward, pressing against his side, absorbed in her tactile exploration. He can see she is concentrating, by the tight line of her lips. Now fingertips run across his brow and it tickles, so he arches them. A slight hitch in the heaving of her chest against him denotes her surprise, but the now confident digits move to press against his temple. They rest there, feeling his heartbeat. He can feel hers too.

Soon it is as if all the blood in her veins is flowing towards that point of connection, which throbs gently and painlessly. Waver feels her entire self concentrated in her fingertips, touching Rider, but she is not being drained of energy. They bind to each other here, a merging of souls at one physical point, and she feels inexplicably pulled down by the energy clasped where their skin touches. Her head droops and soft dark hair brushes against his chin. Her lips part and she exhales in exaltation, the breath ghosting along his skin.

She is kissing him again, this time tentative and soft. He wants to raise his head and press into her embrace, but he cannot risk losing this gift by being too bold. So he reciprocates as best he can from his position, but as the kisses continue, a hand raises to stroke the paleness of her cheek. They kiss languidly and quietly for a time, until she backs away, mouth glistening. Her eyes are sad, but she smiles at him, as she rolls back to lie facing him on the bed.

"I suppose you can sleep here tonight."

They fall asleep still in their clothes and a moth fluttering around the burning lamplight.


	4. The Grail War: Part 3

She reads: "The King gave control over the lands he had conquered, and the rights to the taxes from those lands, to the local nobles. He then mustered his armies and marched off, taking them further east. He continued on his campaign . . . because he wanted to reach Okeanos, the furthest ocean."

"Well I'll be. This is a book about me! You are a strange young lady. I am right in front of you every day. If you want to know something just ask me."

It is so simple from his point of view. She flushes in embarrassment. Not all of us can be as cavalier and confident as he. Not all of us can admit reverence to the objects of our interest. Not all of us are bathed with sincerity when we speak. So we are afraid and we hide, grasping for morsels on the sly. Waver does not expect him to be sympathetic, so she attacks with her meager ammunition.

"According to this history book, you were really short when you were first alive!"

Waver knows almost nothing about Alexander the Great. It was out of character to not have studied, but that had been the freedom of the Grail War. A powerful servant would mask her faults and her dreams would come to fruition with speed and minimized effort. If not the means to victory she will then be the origin, inarguably a role of paramount importance. The servant would be a tool. The person is irrelevant.

He wishes to be reincarnated, he tells Saber, and at his words Waver can feel her opinion of Rider shift into piercing clarity. She rubs her eyes, suspicious of perhaps a physical change. Yet this is the same Rider she kissed with the weak mortal need to commiserate and be comforted. He is a holy spirit, but here in his t-shirt, drinking wine and speaking of dreams, he is now hauntingly human. Because he is selfish. Rider always had the front of childish self-absorption, but his ultimate subservience hung over all their interactions. If she ordered him to die he should against reason turn that shining sword to extinguish the glory he stood for. This was the supremacy of a master: even if unused, they possess the ability contradict the essence of great heroes and legends. The complete loss of their agency diminishes their humanity. The mage's skill is in how far they have dragged down a once brilliant and strong soul; the servants are trophies. The mage's power trip, but such were the rules of he Grail War. Unbreakable.

She resolves that when they win she will destroy the Holy Grail.

Yet while they are still caught in its net Rider fights at his bonds. Against all rules his desire to live burns; he must be his own man. Waver understands. He calls her small not in association with physical size, but because of the limit and nature of her ambitions.

She is not selfish enough. She wants to live, but not for herself, she had wanted to exist for the sake of others. Rider does not have the privilege to choose and he envies her. She has much to learn.

* * *

On the banks of the Mion River she expects her instincts of self-preservation to kick in. The purple haze burns her eyes, but there is no Rider to hide behind as he flies to fight Caster's beast. She stands vulnerable in front of the other masters. She could run now. She could call Rider back and retreat. The encircling faces are, critical or earnest. Everyone seeks guidance. It is overwhelming.

This is no arena to prove your worth.

She realizes that even if she were to devise the perfect plan that it will not change the other masters. They are set in their minds regarding Waver Velvet. How many even know her name? True, she does not know all their profiles either. She only knows they are better than her.

A part of her wishes to impress, it adds to its traps of anxiety and convoluted thought. It has dominated her for years, but there is a new voice now. A more vocal part of her mind rears its head, clawing at her inhibitions. It screams to act. Do. The you is not important.

Rider depends on her. She wants to be the master he deserves. So, the previously self-contained Waver Velvet, she must realize that the Grail War will be the first fight she cannot fight alone.

"Einzbern, do you have any ideas?"

The plan is made and she has not been completely useless. She is the one who always knows what and how she will do something, but the Grail War forces her to release her habit of control. She is satisfied with her small part, if it will work. Lancer jumps off, one spear lesser, and she feels a tugging in her chest, but her mind is only focused on Rider. This is the first time he has not been near her since the war began and though she finds her eyes flitting towards Lancer, her servant's absence sends a worry through her that overcomes what she knows to be the Love Spot's curse.

Saber takes her stance and the gold of Excalibur lights up Fuyuki. All are enthralled. The King of Knights' Noble Phantasm slices and burns through Caster's abomination, waves of sound and water crashing, then gone like the dreams of the soldiers the light represents. The people of Britain, thousands near millions now, rest upon the shoulders of that little girl. Saber lives for them above herself. So she suffers, taken hold of by the curse of ideals.

At end, Rider lands his chariot to face his own little girl, and though her hair is not yellow she still reflects the light around her. Unlike Saber, aged from living for her people, it does not pain him to look upon Waver. She glows with true youth. Archer is a monster; he loves Saber because her goals are self-destructive. The two servants will never see eye to eye. Rider looks upon his master and knows he loves her because she will live.

"Rider, are you all right? What were you and Archer talking about?" She comes running to him, face open with concern. The gangly body scrambles into the chariot and bends its neck to stare expectantly upwards. A contemplative hand comes to Rider's chin.

"Talk, damn it!"

He does not comply, but the smile he casts is not usual confidence or mirth, instead oddly serene.

"Okay, have it your way! Just stop staring at me and take me home." A hand tugs at the edge of her hair and her eyes drop down, suddenly self-conscious.

He chuckles and places an endeared palm on her head. "You look beautiful," he says, "but I hope you shall never suffer to see such light again."

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I suppose I thought I could tough it out," the voice responds sheepishly.

"You idiot," she says, but there is no anger in it. She crams in a final mouthful of rice and takes a drink, then begins to unfold the sleeping bag, "you can't do this alone."

The fabric is warm. She lies down and looks up at the sky that is a traitorous, blissful azure. She can imagine the disembodied Rider is sitting next to her. If she only were to turn her head she might see him. It is easier this way. This could be a normal picnic and they might be regular friends or lovers. That is another life.

"You used your own stored power when you could have used mana from me, didn't you? What's the big idea?"

"I'm a natural soul eater. If I involve you when I expend mana at my maximum rate, it could put your life at serious risk."

"But this is a battle I got us into. Unless I bleed or make sacrifices there's no point at all of winning this war."

If they win what becomes of Rider? She is supposed to kill him. Her wish for the Grail must be worth all the pain she will have brought upon him. The worth of the Grail . . . doubt has begun to pick at her mind. She is ashamed, but there is no way to back out now.

"All I wanted was to prove that someone like me could take what they wanted with their own two hands," she laments.

"I hope you realize that you can only achieve that if the Grail truly exists. I once did something similar. I fought ferociously for something that might not even have existed."

"Okeanos . . ."

"Correct. They all followed me on my quest without a single doubt. Many died along the way, all dreaming of Okeanos until the very end. When I gained this era's knowledge I had to accept that the world was an enclosed sphere. I've had my own fill of letting people die for fairy tales. If the Grail's existence were certain then I would have no objection to you risking your life. I would win in the end. I would win it for you. It would give me great pleasure to bring you something you so desired, even at cost to myself."

This is the crux of the problem. That Rider cares for her and she for him.

"Even if it doesn't exist, we still have to fight for it! I'm your Master, so I'm in the same position you were. I'm the one who is going to have to watch you die and I've decided I'm not going to let that happen. So, you have to do what I say and I say you take my mana now!"

"Listen to my young lady giving orders! Excellent! If I rest all day I should be able to materialize come nightfall. Then I shall be ready to go another round. "

She does not know how to say she does not want him just for fighting. She once begged him to take spirit form, but now she misses the large presence at her side.

"Another round?""I shall fight Saber first. The Ionian Hetairoi must be saved for the last fight with Archer."

"Why . . . Saber?" Her eyelids droop, as she yawns, stumbling over the small question.

"Because I must be the one to defeat her. It is my responsibility. If I do not show her the right path to true kingship I fear she will never learn. That would be too sad to bear thinking about. Now, cease keeping yourself awake and sleep. Rest is the battle that you face right now."

Sleep catches her quickly and soon gentle snores are added to the birds' chirping.

Rider waits. There is another he hopes to bring to true kingship.

* * *

It is dusk when he regains form, but the forest is utterly dark by the time they are sated. Rider hums with magic energy. Waver feels cleansed. Her clothes are balled up on the edge of the blanket, but his cloak is warm where it wraps around their otherwise naked, entwined bodies. She murmurs into his chest and he cannot hear all she says, but he does not think she wants him to hear, for the sake of her own pride.

There is one question that rings loud and clear. She has pulled her crumpled clothes back on and finger combs her hair into a semblance of her straight bob. She kneels where he still reclines, hands folded in her lap. It is a devotional pose. So she implores her deity for knowledge.

"What do you honestly think of your Master?"

He tells her the truth.

Rider fancies her a flower. She has a strong foundation, a spindly body culminating in a thick head. Like all plants she needs water and nurturing to grow. She is budding now, but he knows she has potential. Yet he worries, for he knows with enough force she can be trampled down. So he resolves to build a fence around this flower, protect it at all costs, and it will grow to be the strongest and most fragrant in this worldly garden. This is part of his dream.

So when he calls Saber the flower of the battlefield, what Saber takes as mockery, Waver knows to be a compliment of the highest order. She thinks she should be jealous. Rider values Saber for her heroic spirit. He wants to conquer the King of Knights.

Waver Velvet has already been conquered; she has no need for jealousy. Rider's modus operandi: without destroying or degrading them, he seeks to rule the very souls of his followers. Saber does not understand that Rider will not diminish her, in conquering and adding them to his legion, he elevates his followers to the shining heroes they can be.

Thus, he is the true King of Conquerors. Waver Velvet has joined his ranks.


End file.
